By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
From the fifth book.
| I had a precious treasure at that time, A little yellow canvass-covered book, A slender abstract of the Arabian Tales; And when I learned, as now I first did learn From my companions in this new abode, That this dear prize of mine was but a block Hewn from a mighty quarry -- in a word, That there were four large volumes, laden all With kindred matter -- 'twas in truth to me A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly I made a league, a covenant with a friend Of my own age, that we should lay aside The monies we possessed, and hoard up more, Till our joint Savings had amassed enough To make this book our own. Through several months Religiously did we preserve that vow, And spite of all temptation hoarded up, And hoarded up; but firmness failed at length, Nor were we ever masters of our wish. And afterwards, when, to my father's house Returning at the holidays, I found That golden store of books which I had left Open to my enjoyment once again, What heart was mine! Full often through the course Of those glad respites in the summertime When armed with rod and line we went abroad For a whole day together, I have lain Down by thy side, O Derwent, murmuring stream, On the hot stones and in the glaring sun, And there have read, devouring as I read, Defrauding the day's glory -- desperate -- Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach Such as an idler deals with in his shame, I to my sport betook myself again. |